


Cold

by kesdax



Category: Rizzoli & Isles
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:12:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kesdax/pseuds/kesdax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of <i>I'm Your Boogie Man</i>, everyone has their own way of dealing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jane Rizzoli isn't fine

_Pain. It filled her senses. From the palms of her hands, up through her arms and across her chest, pervading her body. For a long time nothing else existed, just her and the pain._

_And then the room came into focus with all the clear clarity of someone about to be hit by a car, knowing that there wasn’t enough time to move out of the way. A deer caught in the headlights._

_Frankie lay on the floor at her feet, hands and legs bound by duct tape, mouth gagged. She tried to call out, but only managed a weak croak. Her mouth was so dry it felt like she hadn’t had a drink to moisten it in weeks._

_How long had she been here anyway? Hours? Days? She couldn’t remember Frankie coming with her either. Yes, that was it. She had come alone, on a hunch. So what the hell was Frankie doing here? How had Hoyt got to him?_

_Something flashed at the corner of her left eye. She turned to get a better look, her head like lead as she tried to move, but all she could see was the dark – the blackest of black. She twisted back again to see if Frankie had noticed anything. Except Frankie was gone._

_She attempted sitting up, the scalpels through her hands preventing her and she cried out in agony as the sharp blades tugged at unbroken tissue, causing fresh blood to spill. The coopery smell invaded her nose, making her feel nauseous._

_“Shh, it’s okay, baby.”_

_She froze. The soft, high-pitched voice turning the blood in her veins to ice._

_“Where’s Frankie?” she managed to rasp out. “Where’s my brother?”_

_“Don’t worry. Frankie’s asleep,” came the cold reply._

_She tried to find the owner of the voice, but her eyes were met with only black. Then she saw something to her right. Frankie!_

_“See? He’s sleeping.”_

_But Frankie wasn’t sleeping. She couldn’t see his chest rising and falling in the familiar pattern of slumber. His face was as pale as the first snow fall in winter._

_A sob broke free from her lips. The lifeless form of her brother seared into her brain, the image remaining there even as she closed her eyes to shut the horror out._

_“And now it’s time for you to sleep too.”_

_Her eyes snapped open at the threat, her heart thumping, the pain fading to the background of her mind as her body was pumped full with adrenalin._

_“No,” she said with determination. But she was powerless as a third scalpel was produced and pressed heavily to her throat. She gulped, the blade biting into her skin, sobering her up to the mortality of her situation._

_She was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it. The image of her dead brother would be last thing she would ever see._

 

Jane Rizzoli woke with a start. The last remnants of her nightmare fading as she sat up in bed, hands rubbing her eyes as if to scrub away the horrors that plagued her subconscious. She yawned, rolling over to check the time on her alarm clock – the numbers standing out in stark aluminous, as if mocking her – 3:30 am. Shit. She’d had about three hours sleep. No wonder she felt like crap.

Knowing there was very little chance of her finding sleep again tonight, Rizzoli rolled out of bed. The sudden rush of blood to her head made Jane swoon slightly before she quickly reclaimed her equilibrium and made her way cautiously to her bedroom door.

The floor creaked, making Jane freeze in her tracks. She strained her ears, listening for any slight foreign sounds that would indicate she wasn’t alone in the apartment. Her palms began to sweat and she wiped them dry on her pyjama bottoms.

She knew it was ridiculous; the fear and paranoia she was feeling. Hoyt was securely locked away in prison again. She was safe.

But part of Jane couldn’t get over the fear that Hoyt might have someone else out there. Another apprentice. Another Emily – a victim he had manipulated into being his soldier, his follower.

Jane shrugged off the feeling, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. She wouldn’t think about Hoyt. Wouldn’t let the bastard ruin her life any more than he already had.

Turning the lights on as she went, Jane made her way to the kitchen, her feet slapping loudly on the cold floor tiles. Opening the fridge, she studied the contents available. Beer , always her first choice, but she also had some wine as well, a beverage she had been adding to her shopping list lately in case Maura ever dropped by (her friend detested the taste of beer, much to Jane’s amusement). In the end, Jane opted for door number three: the much stronger and more satisfying option of pure spirits. She closed the fridge, raiding the cupboards for the stash of vodka she knew she had hidden in there somewhere for emergencies.

She eventually found the half empty vodka behind a bottle of unopened mustard and a jar of jelly that Jane was pretty sure had been out of date since 2005. Scrunching her nose in disgust at the offending jar as she gingerly tossed it in with the rest of the trash, Rizzoli poured herself a heavy measure of vodka, neat.

She gulped half of it down in one go, pulling a face as the beverage burned its way down her oesophagus. Jane made her way for the couch; glass in one hand, bottle in the other.

It was going to be a long night.

*

Something was wrong.

A loud, incessant noise filled her ears and refused to let up even as Jane finally peeled her eyes open – an accomplishment that took great effort; it felt like someone had taped them shut. It took her a few moments to realise that the offending noise was a combination of her cell phone blaring a symphony and the jack hammer currently going at it in her head.  
Jane groaned, covering her eyes with a hand and praying that whoever was calling her at this ungodly hour would either take the hint or walk in front of a bus or something.

The phone stopped ringing, much to Jane’s relief, for a few blissful moments before immediately blaring into life again.

“Okay, fine,” Jane growled at the inanimate object. “You win.” She grabbed the phone, hitting the answer button with more force than was necessary and shouted “Rizzoli” down the mouthpiece, letting the person at the other end know just how much she resented being woken at whatever time it was. Jane couldn’t be bothered to check her watch.

“Uh… hey, Jane.” It was Frost, sounding embarrassed and a little bit guilty. Jane found her anger and irritation dissolving, knowing that, whatever her problems, it wasn’t Frost’s fault.

“Hey Frost. What’s up?” Jane tried to sound nonchalant, knowing she sounded anything but.

“We got a call out,” replied Frost quickly. “DOA in the South End. If you’re up to it,” he added quickly.

“Why wouldn’t I be up to it?” Jane asked, her irritation coming back fast.

“You know. After everything with Frankie and …” Frost trailed off, coughing slightly.

“I’m fine!” Jane snapped. “Just give me the address.”

Frost started to say something, but seemed to change his mind. He relayed off the address, giving Jane what little details he knew. Jane told him she’d meet him in thirty minutes and hung up before he could say any of the things that would make her change her mind. She could do this.

Jane glanced about her living room – when had the place become such a mess? The floor was littered with dirty laundry, the coffee table covered with empty take out cartons, days old. The bottle of vodka from last night sat open on the table top, barely a quarter left. Jane stared at it a moment before grabbing the bottle by the neck and downing the remainder.

She dragged the back of her hand across her lips, wiping her face. The alcohol burned its way down her throat and into her stomach like acid. The empty bottle felt both light and heavy at the same time in her hands.

Jane felt nothing as the bottle left her hand and smashed against the wall. The sound of glass shattering echoed in her ears, but Jane didn’t care as she stepped through the mess into the bathroom. Turning the shower up as hot as it would go, Jane Rizzoli still felt cold.

*

Jane rolled her car to a stop, taking in the typical Bostonian street. There was nothing remarkable about it apart from the dead body in one of the apartment buildings and the dozen uniform cops and crime scene investigators roaming the area for clues, the uni’s keeping the general public at bay behind the yellow crime scene tape.

It was depressing really, how familiar this setting was. Jane had seen it a hundred times over. The scenery would change slightly, the circumstances, but the procedure always remained the same.

Rizzoli stepped under the crime scene tape, reciting her name and badge number to the uni keeping a log of those coming and going from the scene. Her feet carried her up the stairs automatically. She met Frost outside the vic’s apartment, looking greener than usual.

“We got a bloody one?” Rizzoli asked, taking in her partner’s weak demeanour.

Frost nodded. “It’s a real mess in there, Jane,” he said warningly.

Jane ignored Frost’s subtle get out of jail free card, snapping on a pair of latex gloves and plastic booties. “Let’s see what we got.”

Frost wasn’t exaggerating, the place looked like hell. There was blood everywhere, seeping into the cream carpet. It looked as if the victim’s entire eight units of blood had spilled out over the floor. And in the lake of red sat the victim, standing out stark and pale against the crimson.

Rizzoli’s mind flashed to last night’s dream before she could stop herself. Frankie lying pale as death in a pool of his own blood, her unable to do anything to save him.

“Cause of death is most likely exsanguination.”

Jane jumped. She turned to the medical examiner and gave her one of her patented ‘no, you don’t say’ looks to quickly cover herself. Maura shrugged in response, smiling slightly.

“Victim is Annie Miller. Twenty five. Lived alone.” Frost remained at the doorway, eyes on his notebook, avoiding looking at anything red.

Jane nodded, avoiding the doctor’s eye as she shot Jane a questioning look. The detective ignored her, crouching down to get a better look at the body.

The victim’s wrists were cut. A razor blade sat next to her left hand. It didn’t take a genius to work out what had happened.

“The victim most likely slit her wrists down the vein,” the ME said, bending at Jane’s side. Jane smirked inwardly as the doctor cringed slightly at the words ‘most likely’ coming out of her mouth. Her friend’s incapability of making a simple educated guess never failed to both amuse and irritate the hell out of her at the same time. “Maximum effect for bleeding out,” the doctor continued.

Jane nodded, turning away and standing up. “We find a suicide note?” she aimed at Frost’s general direction. She could feel Maura’s eyes on her, probing in that scientific way she always did.

“Not yet.” Frost shook his head.

“She got any family?” Jane asked, even though the thought of notifying some poor mother and father made her sick to her stomach.

“Parents live in Phoenix. They’re getting the next plane out.”

Jane surveyed the room. The case was pretty open and shut. Hardly worth getting out of bed for. Jane rubbed at her neck, trying to work the kinks out and debating whether or not to just let Frost handle this on his own. It wasn’t like there was much else she could contribute, apart from ‘oh look, the victim’s dead. Most likely by suicide.’

“Are you alright?” asked Maura quietly, but the softly spoken words still made Rizzoli start.

“I’m fine,” she said, as if it were obvious. Maura gave her look, clearly not buying it. Rizzoli wondered when the ME had gotten so good at reading people. Or maybe she was just good at reading her.

The empathic look on her friend’s face becoming too much for her, Jane turned away, stumbling slightly. Maura reached out a hand, gripping Jane’s arm to steady her, pulling her forward slightly. Their faces were so close that Jane could feel the doctor's breath on her cheek.

“Have you been drinking?” Maura hissed, grabbing Jane's undivided attention. “I can smell alcohol on your breath.” Maura looked outraged.

Jane glanced around, not exactly eager for this conversation to be overheard. Frost had disappeared somewhere (probably puking his guts out in the nearest bush) and everyone else was busy processing the scene.

“Would you keep your voice down,” Jane shushed, grabbing Maura’s elbow and leading her out into the hall, aware that she wasn’t actually denying it.

“Jane?” Maura said, exasperated, her candid face revealing that she was more worried than angry. Rizzoli couldn’t take the tone in her friend’s voice. It felt like the walls were closing in around her. Her palms were sweating again.

“Would you just drop it, please?” Without waiting to hear the ME’s response, Rizzoli headed down the hall with the pretence of finding Frost and ignoring her friend’s repeated exclamations of her name, even as the medical examiner’s pleas continued to follow her down the hall, eliciting a stab of guilt in Jane’s heart. Her friend was only trying to help, and all Jane could do was push her away.

In the end, she never found Frost. Instead, Jane headed back to her car. She sat behind the wheel, but didn’t start the engine. Her hands were trembling and she gripped the steering wheel in an effort to make them stop. The scars on her hands stood out as an ever-present reminder of the hell Charles Hoyt had put her through.


	2. Maura Isles feels like she’s in high school all over again.

The Boston medical examiner observed carefully as her team respectfully placed the cold body of Annie Miller into a black body bag. She watched as her assistant pulled the zip, from the victim’s feet up, closing her off from the world and obscuring her face from the public, before lifting the body up onto a stretcher for transfer back to the morgue.

Maura scrutinized the room. Technically her job here was done now that the body had left the scene. Her job now was to head back to her morgue and begin the search for evidence that would help to determine what had happened here. But something held her back for a moment, urging her to take one last look around.

Although the detectives were quick to assume that the victim committed suicide, Maura wasn’t so sure. Never one for making assumptions, Doctor Isles was determined to see this case through as she would any other, perform the autopsy to her highest standard. If Annie Miller had died by her own hand, or if someone else was involved, Maura would make an accurate conclusion based on the evidence presented to her.

Satisfied that there was nothing else she could do here, Maura left the apartment building, finding Frost outside in deep discussion with one of the uniformed officers who had been first on the scene. His eyes met hers, and Frost quickly ended his conversation, making his way over to her.

“You find anything, Doc?”

Maura shook her head. “I’ll know more once I examine the body.”

Frost nodded, hands on hips, with a look of steely determination on his face as he gazed past the doctor to the apartment building, lost in his own thoughts. His forehead wrinkled into a frown as he focused his attention back to the medical examiner.

“Does something about this not seem right to you?” Frost asked carefully, as if afraid to voice his own thoughts, in case he was scorned for making a brash statement.

“What do you mean?” asked Maura.

“I dunno,” he shrugged, then smiled, moving his hand back and forth as if to wave the thought away. “It’s just,” he continued, “there was no suicide note.”

“Well, only about 37% of suicide victims leave a note,” Maura recited. “Perhaps Annie Miller was in that 63%.” She tried to sound reassuring, but Frost didn’t seem comforted by her hard facts.

“No, that’s not it,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I’m going to go check out the crime scene again.” Frost didn’t seem so sickened by the idea now that the body was gone. “I’ll see you back at the ranch.”

“Hey, have you seen Jane?” Maura called before he could retreat any further.

“Not since she headed back to the station,” he replied over his shoulder.

Maura frowned. Jane never left a crime scene until CSU were finished and she was satisfied that all evidence had been collected. If Frost had noticed his partner’s lack of interest in this case, he didn’t mention it. Maura also wondered if she was the only one to recognise the female detective’s not so sober state this morning.

With a worried frown, the ME stepped into her flashy car. Maybe her friend was just having a bad morning. It had only been three days since Emily Stern’s death; Jane still had to be processing.

The dark circles under Jane’s eyes had not gone unobserved by the doctor; a definitive indication that the brunette was still having trouble sleeping. But that didn’t explain the distinctive smell of alcohol on the detective’s breath this morning.

Maura shook her head, clearing her thoughts as she expertly manoeuvred her car down the street, weaving between the patrol cars. Judging by Jane’s reaction at Maura's impromptu interrogation, it was going to take Maura a lot more than a simple chat to get through to her friend. Nevertheless, Maura was determined.

*

The tension in the Boston PD homicide unit was intense, even someone as socially inept as Maura Isles could sense it. The ME scanned the room as she entered, a cup of coffee in each hand.

Jane was sitting at her desk, staring blankly at the computer screen in front of her. Korsak was busying himself with paperwork, but Maura noticed that every now and then he would glance up, looking at his old partner with concern out of the corner of his eye. Everyone in the unit seemed to be avoiding contact with each other, keeping themselves busy so they didn’t have to make small talk with each other, and in general being as quiet as possible.

“I brought you some coffee,” said Maura brightly, placing the cup at Jane’s elbow. “Lots of sugar – just the way you like it.”

Jane glanced warily at her friend. Leaving the coffee untouched, the detective said, “what do you want, Maura?”

The smile fell from the ME’s face. She glanced around the room, aware of eyes on her. Korsak abruptly returned to his paperwork as she glanced his way, feigning innocence.

“We always have coffee when we get a new case.”

“It’s not set in stone, Maura.” Jane stood up, opening one of the filing cabinets by her desk and roaming through it, her back to the doctor.

The usually infallible medical examiner felt herself start at that, her feelings hurt despite herself. She was acutely aware of Korsak and the other detectives; watching her, judging her. She’d had that feeling many times before. The feeling of knowing that everyone in the room was silently ridiculing her behind her back, sometimes to her face. She hadn’t felt like this since high school. She hadn’t thought about it since Jane came into her life. Jane, the best and only friend she had ever had. And now, her best friend was pushing her away, and Maura had no idea how to fix it.

Oh, she understood what Jane was going through. The brunette had almost lost her brother three days ago. She still remembered that night with crystal clear clarity, the events fixed into her brain.

Starting on cue as if she had pushed the play button herself, that night flashed before her. The moment she had realised that Frankie’s new girlfriend was actually Emily Stern. How her heart had stopped in her chest as she realised Jane was in danger. The numerous scenarios that ran through her head as she, Frost and Korsak rushed over to Jane’s apartment, breaking the speed limit and running every red light. The monumental relief she felt when they final got there and found Jane alive, Emily Stern dead.

Maura pushed the horrible memories away, watching her friend’s stiff back. Jane’s body language screamed ‘leave me the hell alone’.

Maura recalled from her psychology classes that after times of trauma, a person may isolate themselves from the people they cared about, from their loved ones. It was a defence mechanism. It’s what Jane was doing now, defending herself by putting up walls and shutting everyone out. If she wasn’t close to anybody, then she couldn’t get hurt.

Maura understood this in a detached, clinical sort of way, her brain telling her this was a perfectly normal (if irrational) response to a traumatic experience. However, her heart was telling her something else. It couldn’t accept seeing her friend in obvious distress, no matter how hard Jane tried to hide it from her.

Maura had no idea what to do, how to fix it. Jane was the fixer out of the two of them, and Maura felt lost without her friend there to guide her.

Maura glanced at Korsak for support, but he was studiously avoiding her gaze. Frost had returned at some point, depositing a stack of crime scene photos on his desk. He gave a small smile, but, like everyone else, seemed to be avoiding eye contact and treading carefully. It was as if the entire unit was walking on tenterhooks, waiting for the final shoe to drop.

“I’ll be starting the autopsy at noon,” Maura said, retreating into stiff professionalism and the safety of her job.

“Why bother,” Jane said, turning around and giving Maura an unreceptive look. “She killed herself, why waste your time?”

Maura felt a stab of hurt at her friend’s words. She took a deep breath, closing off her emotions as she said, “we investigate all unattended deaths.”

Jane rolled her eyes at the standard party line. “Whatever, I’ll just read the autopsy report.”

“I’ll go,” said Frost, standing up. He gave Maura a reassuring smile. Maura smiled back, grateful for the support.

“You,” Korsak snorted, “going to an autopsy? Willingly?”

Frost shot him a look of contempt. “At least I’m doing work,” he said, staring pointedly at Korsak’s desk.

“What? I’m doing work,” said Korsak indignantly.

“No, you’re not. You’re reading the sports section.” Frost eyed the papers on Korsak’s desk. Korsak shuffled them nervously, looking guilty.

“There was a big game on last night,” he said in his defence.

Frost rolled his eyes, shaking his head in exasperation.

*

Annie Miller lay lifeless on the steel autopsy table. Maura began the external examination; a routine she had perfected over the years. It took all of her focus and concentration to analyse the body in front of her, to keep a keen eye for the smallest traces of evidence that would add to the story of what had happened to the person lying on her table. Every murder was different; no body was ever the same.

Maura began by removing the victim’s clothes, which would be sent to the crime lab for examination of trace evidence. She then worked her way from the head down, analysing and logging her findings as she went.

“She has bruises on her upper thighs,” said Maura, more to herself than for Frost’s benefit.

“What kind of bruising?” asked Frost, morbid curiosity piqued.

Maura didn’t answer him. Instead she scanned the equipment she always laid out before beginning an autopsy. Finding the item she was looking for, Maura snatched it up, focussing back on the body.

“Can you get the lights, please?” she directed at Frost, who immediately complied.

The room filled with darkness, the only source of light coming from the UV torch in the ME’s skilled hands. She trailed the light over the bruised area; splotches illuminated on the pale skin.

“Semen,” stated Maura, matter-of-factly. She looked at Frost, his face ghostly in the unusual light.

“You think she was…” Frost trailed off, unable to voice the question.

“I’ll have to perform a rape kit in order too –”

“Doc!” Frost interrupted, raising a hand. He gave her a pleading look.

“Yes ,” she said slowly, “these bruises are consistent with sexual assault.”

Frost nodded, turning away from the body. Maura watched him carefully; wary in case he decided to bring up his lunch. Frost was doing remarkably well with his immersion therapy, but on occasion a case would get to him, and his body’s visceral reactions would take over.

“I knew something wasn’t right with that crime scene.”

“I’ll put a rush on the DNA tests,” said Maura as she took a swab for analysis. Frost nodded, taking a deep breath as he turned around again.

Maura continued the examination in stony silence. Neither one spoke a word until she had finished the rape kit.

“The victim has bruising and tearing at the four o’clock position, consistent with sexual assault,” Maura concluded,” and judging by the colouring of the bruises on her thighs, she was raped just prior to death.”

Frost nodded. He’d had time to prepare himself for the worst as Maura carried out the rape kit, but he still looked ill. He gestured for her to begin with the internal exam.

Maura lifted a scalpel off the tray and cut the Y incision with a skill that didn’t betray the inner turmoil she was feeling. They’d all assumed this was a suicide, but now it was beginning to look like that wasn’t the case. How much evidence had been overlooked or compromised because they had assumed it was an open and shut case?

The ME could feel her fury rising, but she forced it down, intent on doing this properly so that they could find justice for Annie Millar.

“I should call Jane,” said Frost, pulling out his cell phone and averting his eyes as Maura pulled the victim’s flesh apart. Maura stilled at his words, remembering Jane’s attitude at the crime scene, and then later in the squad room. The normally caring detective had been uncharacteristically dismissive. But Frost didn’t dial, just stared at his phone instead.

“Frost?” He turned to look at her, Maura raising her eyebrows questioningly.

“Yeah, I should call her,” he said with more conviction this time. Maura tried to decipher his actions, but once again her social awkwardness isolated her from the living. She did manage to catch the look of painful concern on the detective’s face, however.

Perhaps the doctor wasn’t the only one worried about Jane Rizzoli.


	3. Vince Korsak remembers the exact moment he knew he loved Jane Rizzoli

“Blood results show traces of Rohypnol,” said Doctor Isles, walking them through the victim’s blood test results. “Given the levels at the time of death, it is very unlikely that Annie Miller slit her own wrists.”

“She was murdered,” whispered Rizzoli, rubbing her eyes with a hand.

“The internal exam might be able to tell us more, but at this point I’m willing to rule this as a homicide,” continued Isles.

They had gathered in the morgue after Frost had called to inform them that their suicide was now a murder. The atmosphere was grim. Korsak could feel the guilt radiating off Rizzoli; it was clear in the downward angle of her gaze, the slight slouch of her shoulders and the way she worried at the old scars on her hands. Korsak could tell she was beating herself up over not being more professional earlier. He felt his own catholic guilt stir within him. He hadn’t been at the crime scene, but he’d seen the photos, heard Jane’s account. He had come to the same conclusion as everyone else: Annie Miller had killed herself. How wrong they had all been.

“You do door to door?” Korsak directed at Frost.

The kid nodded. “A couple of uni’s talked to some of the neighbours. Nobody saw or heard anything.”

“Yeah, cause you were asking the wrong questions,” Korsak retorted disdainfully. He was angry and Frost was an easy target.

“Me? How did this become my fault?” said Frost, voice rising in indignation.

“Knock it off, guys,” Rizzoli interceded before Korsak could come up with a rebuff. “This isn’t anybody’s fault, but we need a game plan.”

Korsak nodded in agreement. “We should re-do the canvas.” He stared pointedly at Frost. “Talk to her work and her friends. You got her address book? Computer?” Korsak directed this last at his old partner.

Rizzoli shrugged, averting her eyes.

“Yeah, they’re in evidence,” chimed in Frost.

“Good. We’ll take those,” said Korsak, gesturing for Rizzoli to follow him. “You can take door to doors.” He pointed at Frost, who opened his mouth in protest. Korsak cut him off before he could whine.

“Let us know if you get any hits on the DNA, Doc,” said Korsak. The Doctor nodded, watching as Korsak followed Rizzoli out. He could hear Frost bitching back in the morgue as he and Rizzoli headed for the elevator at the other end of the hallway.

“You the lead on this now?” Rizzoli asked quietly, pushing the up button.  
Korsak shrugged. “Just offerin’ my expertise; it’s still your case.”

“Actually, I think it was Frost’s case.”

“Like he could run a case on his own,” Korsak muttered. He didn’t much care that he was stepping on the young detective’s toes. Something about Frost bothered him. The way he would go out of his way to look at every insignificant detail, how he always seemed to muscle in on what everyone else was doing and making it his business too. Many a time, Korsak had come across Frost first thing in the morning, before anyone else had gotten in, sitting at his desk going over and over crime scene photos and autopsy reports. Some would say that Frost was just being a thorough cop, but Korsak thought it was something else. Personally, Korsak thought, it was as if Frost was doing his hardest to show everybody else up, Korsak included.

That was the problem with youth, thought Korsak, they thought they were much better than their elders, an upgrade to an out of date piece of tech. Well, Vince Korsak wasn’t quite past his sell by date yet, thank you very much.

Korsak tried not to think about the other reason why he didn’t like the Barf Bag Kid. The reason that was standing next to him in stony silence as the elevator carried them up to the third floor. Korsak glanced at Rizzoli, subtly taking her in, letting his finely honed instincts and years of experience reveal what was going on in her head.

“You okay?” asked Korsak, instantly regretted opening his mouth as his ex-partner shot him a glare that could light up Boston for a night.

Korsak’s concern for the female detective had increased somewhat over the last few days. Every time they had a reprieve, something would happen – a seeming copycat of the Surgeon’s work, Hoyt escaping prison, and now this whole thing with Emily Stern; one of Hoyts previous victims, brainwashed into doing Hoyt’s bidding. Each new incidence only served as a reminder that Korsak was no longer Jane’s partner and why.

He could still remember her words: _how could you go into knowing I had your back?_ It cut him up inside, that Jane Rizzoli, the toughest cop that he had ever met thought that she was broken and weak. Rizzoli may believe that she wasn’t cut out to have his back, but Korsak would always have hers.

“Would you quite staring at me, Vince!” Rizzoli exclaimed in irritation. Korsak coughed in embarrassment and was relieved when the elevator doors sprang open with a ding.

They got quickly to work, looking through the evidence gathered from Annie Miller’s apartment. Korsak could sense Rizzoli’s determination as she fired up the victim’s laptop. Usually Frost was the techie out of the two, but Jane was just as adept with a computer.

The permanent frown now present on Rizzoli’s face told Korsak that she was still carrying a heap of guilt. Korsak wanted to say something to make her feel better, to relieve some of her tension, but anything he could come up with felt inadequate. Jane Rizzoli was stubborn, so even if Korsak did think of something brilliant to say, it would just fall flat on deaf ears anyway.

“Got an electronic calendar here,” said Rizzoli, eyes focussed on the laptop in front of her.

“Anything for the days leading up to her death?” Korsak asked eagerly.

“I’m looking, give me a sec,” Rizzoli replied haughtily. “Nothing for the last week,” said Rizzoli, frowning slightly. “But, got several appointments with an M. Lieberman the week before.”

“I’ll run the name,” said Korsak. He tapped the mouse and his desktop computer came to life. He typed ‘M. Lieberman’ into Boston PD’s search engine and waited whilst it searched through the database. “We thinking boyfriend?” asked Korsak. He tried not to get his hopes up, but this was the first lead they had.

Rizzoli was still frowning. “I don’t know… maybe.”

Korsak didn’t much like the look on Jane’s face. He trusted Rizzoli’s gut more than he trusted his own and he was beginning to think M. Lieberman was going to turn into a wild goose chase. Korsak’s computer dinged, announcing that it had completed its search.

“Got three M. Lieberman’s within the Boston area,” he said. _Good_ , he thought, _that should narrow it down_. Maybe they were finally going to catch a break.

“Let me see,” said Rizzoli, coming around the desks. She leaned across Korsak’s shoulder, getting her face as close as possible to the computer screen.

“Your eyes will go square doin’ that,” Korsak said playfully. Rizzoli just rolled her eyes and gestured for Korsak to hurry up and pull up the results.

“Okay, we got a Mark Lieberman, aged 75, currently resides at St. James’ nursing home,” said Korsak, reading from the computer screen. “So, he’s probably not our guy.”

“Ya think?” said Rizzoli sarcastically. She took control of the mouse, bringing up the next result a hell of a lot faster than Korsak would have. Instead of being annoyed, Korsak just grinned to himself, reminded of the old days when they were still partners, when Jane would always insist on driving; claiming that Korsak drove too slowly, even though they both knew it was because she liked to be in control.

“Martin Lieberman, 29 years old,” recited Rizzoli. “This looks good.”

Korsak read the description. He felt Rizzoli tense beside him and once he had gotten to the bottom of the page he realised why. “Deceased March 2009.” Korsak felt himself deflate.

“Last one,” said Rizzoli, clicking open the final search result. “Maria Lieberman.”

“A woman?” said Korsak, disappointed. “Not her either then. Maybe we should do a wider search?”

“No. Hold on,” said Jane. “Doctor Maria Lieberman. This is it.”

“Our vic was seeing a doctor?” said Korsak.

Rizzoli nodded. “Let’s go find out why,” she said. She tapped Korsak on the shoulder, smiling slightly. Korsak could feel her excitement – they finally had a lead.

*

Maria Lieberman practiced at Forest Hills Women’s Clinic, only a few blocks away from Annie Miller’s apartment building. Rizzoli parked the car across the street from the clinic and they both hopped out, blinking in the sunlight.

“It’s a nice day,” said Korsak, straightening his sunglasses.

“Yeah, shame we have to spend it solving a murder,” Rizzoli retorted, squinting her eyes in the glare of the sun. She was smirking slightly, playfully, and the smile almost made Korsak believe that his Jane was back; but it didn’t quite reach her eyes and it faded quickly, leaving behind that shattered woman. Korsak was glad his own eyes were hidden behind the dark lenses of his glasses, that Jane couldn’t see him scrutinising her. Although, he was entirely sure she knew anyway, but just couldn’t bring herself to care anymore.

As they crossed the street, he tried to pretend it was like the early days of their partnership. The playful banter, comfortable silences, knowing each had the others back. Now the banter was forced, each pause in the conversation was awkward, and Korsak couldn’t be sure Rizzoli was all there enough not to hesitate if the moment came.

He watched her push the clinic doors open; her hand tensed as it built up enough force to carry out the act. Then sun’s rays bounced off her pale flesh, highlighting the scar there and reminding Korsak that things between him and Rizzoli would never be like how they used to.

They could never be partners again; she wouldn’t and he couldn’t, he knew now. He wasn’t so worried about Jane hesitating, but himself. He had gotten too close. The woman he loved like she was his own daughter was forever broken and part of him still felt like it was his own fault.

He had hesitated before; let her go off on her own on a hunch because he had given up. He’d got there on time to save her life, but not before Hoyt had done his damage. Korsak remembered that night clearer than anything else. Jane crying in pain but trying desperately not to; and he was barely holding it together himself. His beautiful Jane so helpless and he could do nothing to alleviate her pain. He remembered how vulnerable she looked, dwarfed in his jacket as they waited for the ambulance. It was then he knew he couldn’t lose her, but that he already had.

“You still with us, Vinnie?” said Jane and Korsak tried not to blush in embarrassment, extremely glad that Jane couldn’t read minds.

The clinic’s air conditioning was going at full blast, and Korsak allowed himself a few moments of pleasure as the cold air hit his warm cheeks before following Rizzoli to the reception desk.

“Hi, we’re here to see Doctor Lieberman,” said Rizzoli to the attractive receptionist.

“Do you have an appointment?” The receptionist eyed them warily, probably thinking that they were an odd couple.

“Nope,” said Jane, flashing her badge. This got the receptionist moving and she suddenly became very helpful.

“Of course, detectives,” she said, “I’ll just check if the doctor is available.” She smiled warmly at them and picked up the phone, talking quietly into the mouthpiece. Korsak smiled back and leaned casually on the reception desk. The dark haired receptionist’s bright smile reminded him of his first wife (who he had never really gotten over) and he felt himself loosen up a bit. Flirting always made him feel ten years younger.

The receptionist hung up the phone. “Doctor Lieberman will see you now,” she said and led them down a hallway. “Her office is just down on the left.”

“Thank you,” said Korsak, flashing his most brilliant smile. “You’ve been very helpful.” The receptionist blushed furiously under his intense gaze and tripped back to her desk. Korsak watched her go, turning back around to catch the tail end of Rizzoli’s eye roll as she knocked on the office door.

“What?” he said in his most innocent voice. But Jane just shook her head, smiling genuinely for the first time that day.

The office door opened to reveal a blonde haired woman in her mid-thirties, not particularly attractive, but she exuded confidence and instantly garnered Korsak’s respect.

“Doctor Lieberman?” asked Rizzoli. The doctor nodded and gestured for them to sit in the two guest chairs in front of a desk covered in papers. “I’m Detective Rizzoli, this is Detective Korsak. We need to talk to you about one of your patients.”

“You know I can’t talk about a patient’s medical history,” said Doctor Lieberman, walking around to the other side of her desk and sitting down.

Rizzoli continued as if the doctor had never spoken. “Was Annie Miller a patient of yours?” asked Rizzoli, showing the doctor a picture of the victim that they had brought with them; one retrieved from her apartment. She was smiling in the picture, happy, not one worry that someone might try to kill her.

The doctor nodded hesitantly. “Yes, but I can’t –”

“You’re a gynaecologist, right? So she was pregnant?”

Sensing that Rizzoli’s aggressive questioning was getting nowhere, Korsak stepped in. He took the photo from Rizzoli’s hand and placed it on the doctor’s desk for her to see better and asked again, “Was this woman your patient?”

“Detectives,” Lieberman began slowly and firmly. “I cannot discuss my patients with anyone, not even Boston’s finest.”

“Well, she’s dead,” Rizzoli said bluntly, “so I think that weavers patient-doctor confidentiality.”

“Oh my God,” said Lieberman, genuinely stunned.

“Maybe now you can tell us what you were seeing her for,” continued Rizzoli. Given her attitude, Korsak could tell Rizzoli had an instant dislike for this doctor, and if she wasn’t careful, she could end up pissing Lieberman off to the point where she could make a formal complaint. Something Rizzoli definitely didn’t need right now.

“Yes, Annie Miller was pregnant,” said Lieberman with a resigned sigh, clearly still not comfortable with talking about her patient. “I only saw her twice,” she continued. “Once to confirm she was pregnant, and the second time to…”

“To carry out an abortion,” Korsak guessed.

Lieberman nodded. “Yes.”

“What about the father?” asked Korsak.

“As far as I could tell, he wasn’t in the picture.”

“Her choice or his?” asked Rizzoli.

“Hers, definitely,” said Lieberman with so much conviction that Korsak didn’t doubt her.

“She ever tell you his name?”

“Nope,” said the doctor. “I’m afraid that’s all I know,” she added, effectively ending the interview.

“Okay, we’re going to need a copy of her medical records,” said Rizzoli.

The doctor shook her head. “No way.”

“I can get a subpoena,” Rizzoli threatened.

“Then get one.”

Before Rizzoli could say anything more, Korsak stood up and thanked the doctor for her time, making sure to leave his card in case she remembered anything else. As they left, he gave a little wave to the receptionist, but he was stopped by Rizzoli’s glare from going over and talking to her.

“You okay?” he asked, knowing he was treading dangerous ground.

“We need those medical records,” said Rizzoli angrily.

“Why?” asked Korsak. At this point they wouldn’t be any help to the investigation, unless they happened to magically reveal the name of Annie Miller’s boyfriend.

“I wanted Maura to have a look at them,” Jane said quietly. Korsak didn’t miss the flash of pain that crossed Rizzoli’s face as she mentioned the ME, even if he didn’t understand it.

“Who you callin’?” he asked as Rizzoli pulled out her cell phone.

“The DA,” she answered. “I’m getting that subpoena.”


	4. As far as dynamic duos go, Barry Frost is the butler

Barry Frost watched his partner leave with Korsak and the coolness of the morgue suddenly felt stifling. “This isn’t even his case,” he said aloud to no one in particular. He turned to face Doctor Isles and she flashed him a sympathetic smile. Frost felt himself blush.

“You need me to stay for the internal exam?” he asked. It wasn’t standard protocol for Boston PD to actually attend autopsies; but some cops preferred being involved with every step of the investigation, including the autopsy. Frost wasn’t one of those cops; instead, he was happy just to read the ME’s final autopsy report and follow up with questions later if he needed to.

Thankfully, Isles took pity on him and told him she’d call if she found anything of significance. Frost made a hasty goodbye, partly because he hated the morgue and partly because he had a lot of interviews to do, and without a partner, it would take twice as long.

Frost headed for the lobby, taking the few minutes it took for the elevator to travel upwards to go over his notes. He already had Annie Miller’s work information. She was a trainee chef, working at the Golden Eagle, not a particularly high end restaurant, but it had numerous good reviews. Barry had never eaten there, but he had always wanted to go, had just never found the right person to ask to go with him.

The elevator doors dinged open revealing the busy lobby. The lunch hour was almost over, so both plain clothed and uniformed officers, as well as other personnel vital to the running of a police station, were coming and going; most of them were returning from dining elsewhere, preferring real food to that of the mush served in the cafeteria. Frost recognised Frankie Rizzoli in the crowd, looking proud and alert in his police uniform, talking to the desk sergeant. He spotted Frost as he was heading out and stepped over to talk to him.

“Hey Frost, how’s it goin’?” Frankie asked. He seemed cheery to Frost, and the detective wondered if it was a mask, much like the one Frankie’s sister wore to face the world.

“Hey Frankie, I didn’t know you were back at work,” said Frost.

“First day,” said Frankie.” You got a case?” Frankie was so eager to make detective one day that he made it his business to be as helpful as possible to the detectives of the homicide unit. Frost understood; he had been the same back when he was a rookie in uniform.  
Frost nodded. “Homicide made to look like a suicide,” he explained. “I’m just going now to interview her co-workers. You wanna come?”

“Where’s Jane?” Frankie asked, looking around as if his sister might pop out from behind a waste bin.

“She’s following up a lead with Korsak,” said Frost and he tried not to sound bitter, he really did.

“Really, I thought she was _your_ partner,” said Frankie, falling in step beside Frost as the headed outside.

“Yeah, so did I,” Frost muttered. It bugged him more that he would ever admit, the way Korsak always seemed to be there. Ever since he and Rizzoli had been assigned as partners, Korsak had been a third wheel, hanging around like a bad smell that no one could get rid of. Korsak was left partner-less, claiming that the department didn’t have anyone to partner him up with. Frost suspected this was a lie, that Korsak was just patiently waiting for the day that Frost screwed up, when Rizzoli would realise her mistake and go crawling back to him.

Frost didn’t pretend to understand why Jane had requested a new partner; he knew it had something to do with Charles Hoyt, but Jane had never discussed it with him and he had never had the guts to ask.

Korsak’s constant presence, like a shadow, was a daily reminder that Korsak had been Jane’s partner first, and the constant digs, the nicknames, only instilled in Frost the fact that he was second best, no matter how hard he tried.

“So, where are we headed?” asked Frankie. They had signed out a squad car, and Frankie got behind the wheel, starting the engine.

“Our vic worked at the Golden Eagle; you heard of it?”  
Frankie nodded, swinging the car around and flooring the accelerator. Frost stuck out an arm, bracing himself on the dashboard as Frankie veered around a corner, tires screeching. Frost double checked his seatbelt was secure.

“You drive like your sister, you know,” said Frost, cringing as the car swerved to avoid a pedestrian. “And that’s not a compliment.”

Frankie laughed. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Frost didn’t like the sound of those words. 

“Just let me put on the lights and siren,” said Frankie. Frost shook his head, glad he hadn’t had lunch yet as they swerved violently around another corner.

They made it to the restaurant in record time and, thankfully, in one piece. Frost’s legs felt like jelly as he got out of the squad car. He hadn’t suffered from motion sickness since he was a kid, but Frankie’s driving was enough to make anyone nauseous.

“You okay, buddy?” Frankie asked with a grin, slapping Frost on the back. Frost shot him a glare and headed towards the restaurant. He was the butt of everyone’s joke; the Barf Bag Kid who couldn’t keep his lunch down. No matter how good of a cop he was, it always came back to that.

The restaurant was pretty busy; the lunch crowd in full swing. Normally, Frost would have come at a quieter time, but the way Korsak had dished out orders earlier, implied that the lacklustre door to doors were his fault, had irked him to the point where he was now determined to prove Korsak (and the rest of the unit) that he wasn’t a waste of space that spent most of his time puking in the nearest flowering shrub. He would find a lead. He kept repeating it to himself like a mantra. _I will find a lead. I will find a lead._

The Golden Eagle’s maître d’, looking a little rushed off her feet, saw Frost enter first and said to him, “table for one?” Frost shook his head. The maître d’ spotted Frankie in his uniform and her polite demeanour vanished.

“Actually, we’re here to speak to the manager,” said Frost, holding up his badge.

“Is it important, cos we’re kinda busy,” she said, moving her arm in an arc around the busy room to emphasize her point.

“Yeah, it’s important,” said Frost, trying not to let his irritation show. “We’re here about one of your trainee chefs: Annie Miller.”

The maître d’ paused in what she was doing. “Is this about Greg?”

Frost glanced at Frankie, who just shrugged. Frost had briefed him on the case on the way over and he gave him the nod to lead the investigation, thinking Frankie could do with the experience.

“Is Greg her boyfriend?” asked Frankie, looking eager about the fact that he was actually getting to do something other than stand around as Frost’s backup.

“Not anymore,” the girl replied.

“What happened?”

The maître d’ looked around; making sure no one else was listening and lowered her voice. “He wasn’t a very nice guy,” she said.

“In what way?” asked Frost. He had his notebook out and had jotted down ‘Boyfriend – Greg’ on a fresh page.

“He used to hit her,” the girl continued. “One time he beat her so bad he broke a couple of her ribs.”

“Did she ever report it to the police?” asked Frankie, but Frost already knew the answer to that. He had checked Boston PD’s database to see if Annie Miller was on it: she didn’t have a record and she had never filed any police reports.

“No, but I told her she should have,” she said. “And Mick – he’s the manager – said that he’d call the cops if Greg ever showed up here again.”

“They had an altercation here?” asked Frost.

The girl nodded. “Yesterday; Annie was on the lunch shift. He just showed up and started yelling at her. One of the busboys had to drag him out.”

“You know why he was angry?” Frankie asked.

The girl just shrugged. “No idea. Guy like that doesn’t really need a reason, dose he?” She left them for a few moments to show a group of customers to their table.

“This Greg sounds like your guy,” said Frankie. Frost nodded as the maître d’ came back over.

“Did Annie finally call the cops on him then? Is that why you’re here?” she asked.

Frost glanced at Frankie; this time he wasn’t so eager to break the news.

“I’m afraid she’s dead,” said Frost in his most gentle voice.

“Oh God,” said the girl. “It was Greg. It had to be,” she said, even though Frost had never said that Annie had been murdered. The fact that her co-worker immediately jumped to that conclusion left Frost in no doubt that her boyfriend had something to do with it.

“Does Greg have a last name?” asked Frost.

The girl shook her head. “Annie only ever called him Greg.”

As they left the restaurant, Frost tried not to think about how many Greg’s lived in Boston.

“There’s gotta be a way of finding out who this guy is,” said Frankie. “She must have his address or something written down somewhere in her apartment.”

Frost nodded in agreement. The vic’s laptop and address book were back at the station, but there was a chance there was something they had missed the first time around at the crime scene – CSU had been under the impression that they were dealing with a suicide. Besides, Frost still had to re-canvas Annie’s neighbours; he may as well kill two birds with one stone. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t putting off going back to Schroeder Plaza because he was avoiding his partner.

Frankie moved to open the driver’s door, but Frost wedge himself between Frankie and the door, grabbing the keys out of Frankie’s hand.

“I think I’ll drive this time,” said Frost.

*

At the vic’s apartment, they split up to do door-to-doors. It was the middle of the day, so it was doubtful that many people were home, but they had to try anyway.

For the first three doors Frost tried, he had no luck, and then he hit the jackpot at apartment 4E. An elderly fat woman in her dressing gown answered the door, glaring at him suspiciously.

“I’m Detective Frost with Boston homicide –”

The woman snorted. “What are you? Twelve.”

Frost gritted his teeth. “I need to talk to you about your neighbour, Annie Miller.”

“I already spoke to the cops this morning,” she said, moving to close the door.

“I know,” said Frost quickly, “but I have some more questions to ask you.”

“I don’t know anything!” the woman yelled and slammed the door in Frost’s face.

_Well, that went well._

Frost rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately – too busy worrying about his disaster of a partnership to sleep. He suddenly felt ashamed. Jane was going through shit; she had her own problems, a hell of a lot worse than his, and all he could so was whine about Korsak muscling in on his territory.

Frost clenched his fists in anger and counted to ten, forcing himself to calm down. He was an idiot; it was a miracle he had graduated from the academy in the first place, let alone made detective.

Shaking his head, Frost took the stairs down to the second floor and found Frankie standing in the threshold of 2A, talking to the resident. Frankie saw him and gestured for Frost to come over.

“This is Mr Tucker,” said Frankie. “He runs the local neighbourhood watch.”

“Is that so?” said Frost, taking in Tucker’s beady eyed appearance; his thinning hair and spotted nose gave the impression that Mr Tucker didn’t get out much. “Did you see anything last night?” asked Frost.

Tucker nodded. “Yeah, I saw that good for nothing biker jock.”

“Biker jock?” asked Frost, frowning.

“Yeah, turns out Annie’s boyfriend liked motorbikes,” said Frankie.

“First he shouts the place down, then he has that stupid engine running for ages. I see no reason for it,” Tucker muttered, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“What time was this?” Frost asked, pulling out his notebook.

“12.17 am,” said Tucker. “I know because I wrote it down. See?” Tucker showed them his watch-log, filled with times and descriptions of disturbances.

“Do you know his name?” Frost asked.

“No,” said Tucker. Both Frankie and Frost glanced at each other in disappointment. “But I do know he hangs around that biker bar down at the pier.”

Frost grinned. This door-to-door canvas wasn’t such a waste of time after all. “You think you could describe him to a sketch artist?”

*

“Okay… thanks Jane,” said Frost and hung up his cell phone, just as Doctor Isles came up to his desk, looking excited. He had left Frankie to oversee Tucker with the sketch artist and had just finished briefing Rizzoli on what they had discovered.

“What’s up, Doc?” Frost asked. Isles handed him a folder. “I just completed the internal exam,” she said. “Annie Miller was recently pregnant.

“Yeah, she had an abortion last week. Rizzoli and Korsak spoke with her doctor,” Frost explained.

“Oh,” said the doctor. Frost thought she looked a little hurt; the tension between Rizzoli and Isles had not gone unnoticed by Frost. He wasn’t quite sure what was going on there, but he had a feeling it had something to do with his partner’s behaviour earlier. Something had happened between them at the crime scene. Maura obviously didn’t feel comfortable discussing it with him, and Jane was too busy playing partners with Korsak to confide in him.

If she wanted to be Korsak’s partner again, then why didn’t she just say so? Frost would gladly step aside. He enjoyed working with Jane, liked being her partner, but sometimes it felt like a one-way street; he was always giving and never getting anything back. And his efforts always seemed so pointless anyway – just look at what happened with Emily Stern. Frost should have had Jane’s back, should have been more vigilant. But who would have ever suspected Frankie’s girlfriend, Lola? Maybe if Frost was a better cop, he would have figured it out sooner.

Isles had taken the file from him and was looking through it as if pretending to be busy would hide the fact that she was visibly upset.

“Look, I’m sure Jane was going to call you,” Frost tried to reassure her. Rizzoli and the ME had always been close, and to see them at such odds with each other was hard. Oh, they had had there ups and downs before, but Isles had never looked so lost. It made Frost wonder just how close Rizzoli and Isles really were.

Isles nodded her head automatically and cleared her throat. “I also found evidence of abuse,” she said, handing Frost back the file.

“What kind of abuse?” he asked, glancing at the autopsy report; most of it was medical gibberish, but he could understand the majority of it well enough. Well, at least all the important bits anyway.

“Broken bones that haven’t set and healed properly,” explained Isles.

“Meaning she never went to a doctor?” said Frost. The report indicated that the victim’s 7th and 10th right ribs had been broken within the last six months, which coincided with what Annie Miller’s co-worker had said. She also had fractures in her wrist and arm that hadn’t healed properly.

Isles nodded sadly. “Most domestic abuse victims feel ashamed, like the abuse is their fault, that they deserve it.”

“Annie Miller’s boyfriend sure is a swell guy,” Frost said sarcastically.

“I take it he’s your main suspect?” said Isles.

Frost nodded. “Now we just have to find him,” he said. “You determined the time of death yet?”

“Sometime between nine and midnight last night,” said Isles.

At that moment, Frankie came into the squad room, a piece of paper in hand. “Your witness is done with the sketch artist,” he said, handing the e-fit to Frost. “Hey, Maura,” he added warmly.

“Nice to have you back, Frankie,” said Isles.

“So this is Greg No-last-name,” said Frost. The sketch depicted a dark haired man with average looks, like anybody off the street.

“He doesn’t exactly stand out in a crowd,” said Isles. “How are you going to find him?”  
“He hangs out a biker bar down by the pier,” said Frost.

“I can get a couple of guys to go down there, show the sketch around, see if we get any hits,” suggested Frankie.

“No,” said Frost, staring at the sketch. Their suspect had narrow eyes, and even from a sketch, Frost got the sense that this was a man who could snap at any moment and at the most littlest of things. “We should stake the place out,” he said. “This guy thinks he got away with murder, making it look like Annie killed herself. I don’t want to spook him.”


End file.
